


every road leads to you

by abovetheruins



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Bounty Hunter!Shane, M/M, Rancher!Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: "There’s work to be done and fools to look after.”“That’s no way to talk about your ranch hands, Ryan. Mr. Lim in particular would be mighty offended, I think.”Ryan squints open one eye and fixes Shane with a glare. “Don’t,” he says, and curses himself as he feels his lips twitch. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m angry with you.”“It won’t last,” Shane says, with all the confidence of a man who would know. “It never does.”





	every road leads to you

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing Red Dead Redemption 2 for _weeks_ and then the boys had to go and dress up as cowboys. 
> 
> Face it, this was inevitable.
> 
> Hugely inspired by Red Dead and [this song](https://youtu.be/crYGDqtTtho). A huge thanks to Bee for the quick beta and to the folks in the discord chat for being so encouraging! <3

There's a storm coming.

Ryan can feel it in his bones just as surely as he can feel it in the air. Years out on the plain will do that to you, make you notice things, signs: the scent of iron before grey clouds come rolling in, the nervous shuffle of hooves as the cattle pace in the pasture, the crackle of electricity on the breeze.

"Gonna be a big one," he remarks offhandedly, a bale of hay balanced on the ball of his shoulder.

Steven grunts, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty forearm. "Looks like it," he says, blowing out a breath that ruffles his pale fringe. "C'mon, let's get this done before it hits."

The first drops of rain cool their skin just as they finish the last of the chores. Steven heads towards the doctor's lodgings with a wave and a bid of goodnight, and Ryan watches him go with no small amount of envy before making his way toward the big, empty house he calls his own.

He remembers a time when it used to be full - full of laughter, full of life. Family. But his parents had long since passed and his brother was away, a fine doctor in the city a few days ride north. He sends funds to help keep the ranch afloat, but it falls to Ryan to tend to her, protect her.

It's hard work, grueling at times, but she's his, the legacy his father had left behind, and Ryan loves her, just as he loves the men and women who have sought her out over the years, some eager for work, others for a place to disappear. So long as they carry their weight and don't cause trouble, Ryan's glad to offer them a place to stay, though not all of them can. Not even when they should.

Ryan snorts, peering from the shelter of the front porch out into the softly pouring rain. These are old thoughts, pointless thoughts, and though he does his best to beat them back they're stubborn, just like the man that inspires them.

Better to focus on something he can actually predict, like the encroaching storm. He'll have to keep a watchful eye on the horizon. Busted fences, the possibility of fire if the lightning strikes close enough, spooked animals. Big storm like this one is sure to bring along a whole heap of troubles.

* * *

It isn't until later, as Ryan's jolted awake by a thunderous boom and the frantic whinny of a horse, that he realizes how right he'd been.

He shoots to his feet, ignoring the ache in his neck from falling asleep in the chair by the window, a half empty bottle of whiskey and an empty glass on the side table his only companions through his nighttime vigil. He stumbles outside, still in his boots and leathers, and feels his heart sink at the sight that awaits him.

A large, cream-colored stallion stands in the road, pawing restlessly at the ground and tossing his head. On his back slumps a man, slender fingers dangling lifelessly against the stallion's side, head resting at an odd angle against the animal's neck. His face is ashen and gray, sallow cheeks covered in a thin layer of dark scruff, and the familiarity of it, the slant of his eyes, the long line of his nose, the arch of his cheekbones, glues Ryan's boots to the porch for a few long, startled seconds, before the agitated neighing of the horse shakes him from his stupor.

With a bitten off curse he surges into the deluge, reaching for the man and grunting as he takes the bulk of his weight.

"The hell have you gotten yourself into now?" he mutters, taking in how slight the body against him feels, disturbed by its stillness.

"Ryan?" Jen's running toward them, boots kicking up water and dark hair plastered to her head. "What's goin' on? I heard a horse kickin' up a racket and then - " Her eyes widen as she takes in the rain-soaked bundle against Ryan's side. "Shit, is that - ?"

"Wake Andrew," he grits. The weight he can bear; it’s the spreading warmth along his side, a wetness that isn’t rain, that threatens to crumple him. "Hurry, please."

Jen swallows and nods, taking off in the direction of the doctor's lodgings. Ryan stares down at the slumped head against his shoulder, the raindrops dripping from mousey hair, and curses the pigheadedness of men and his own fool heart.

"Damn it, Shane," he curses, though it's feeble this time, laced with fear. He wants to rage at the man, wants to call him an idiot and a fool and a menace, to remind him that he owes Ryan a debt, to say what he should have said last time – not _good luck_ , not _don’t get yourself killed_ , but _stay_ \- over and over again until he could get it through Shane’s thick skull.

But it’s dwelling on the past that had gotten Shane into this mess, and Ryan’s not about to follow him down that road. When - when, not if - Shane wakes up, he’ll be sure to tell him that.

* * *

The sun's risen by the time Andrew leaves the guest bedroom, tired lines around his eyes while he wipes his hands clean with a worn rag. Ryan's heart sinks at the crimson stains on the fabric, though he's eased by Andrew's smile, small and worn but gentle all the same. "He's asking for you," he says, and Ryan's halfway across the room before he remembers himself.

"Thank you," he mutters clumsily, but Andrew waves his gratitude aside with another small smile.

"He'll need a few weeks to heal," he says. "And he'll need rest, plenty of it. Think you can convince him?"

Ryan squares his shoulders. "I'll find a way."

Andrew's smile broadens. "Then I'll leave him in your hands."

He leaves, and Ryan draws in a single bracing breath before he opens the guestroom door.

"Mornin', Ryan!" Shane should look ridiculous, his long limbs stretched across a bed that's barely big enough to fit him, devoid of his duster and hat and clad only in a loose linen shirt and a spare pair of Ryan's trousers that rides high up on his shins. His hair has dried fluffy and lies in a wild mop on the top of his head, and his lips are lifted in an easy smile.

It's a far cry from how he'd looked last night, wet and wan and bleeding from the gunshot wound in his side. Something in Ryan – something tight and bitter and afraid – settles into a soft ache at the sight, but Ryan pushes it back and fixes Shane with a glare. He’s had enough of being soft around this man.

“I told you not to get yourself killed and you went and nearly did it anyway.” His voice isn’t as steady as he’d like; if Shane asks, he’ll blame it on the sleep he’s lost and not the fear that had kept him awake all night, sure that Andrew was about to come out of the bedroom with blood-stained hands, saying he’d done his best but there were some things you couldn’t heal, some people you couldn’t save.

Ryan has been telling himself the same things for months, ever since the night Shane told him about his family, lips loose from the bottle of whiskey they’d emptied between them and eyes far away.

“There were five of ‘em,” he’d said, throat working around a swallow. He’d kept his eyes on the dark sky, head tilted back and palms pressed to the wooden planks of the porch, immobile but twitching every so often, as if aching to clench into fists. “We weren’t rich folk, didn’t have much. Didn't stop 'em from gutting the house anyway. Burned it, too, before they finally left. Didn’t want any loose ends, I suppose.”

They hadn’t realized they’d left one, wounded and half-delirious with pain but still very much alive.

“Been lookin’ for ‘em ever since,” Shane had told him. “And others like ‘em. Got a talent for it, if you can believe that.”

Ryan could. As tall as Shane was, he had a knack for blending into a crowd, disappearing when it suited him, and putting folks at ease when he put in the effort. Good skills to have when you were hunting down outlaws.

Even now Ryan can’t really see it, can’t see how someone like Shane, someone who sings loudly when drunk and louder still when sober, someone who croons soft nonsense words to his horse and to the stray cats that wander the ranch when he thinks no one's looking, someone who teases Ryan for his superstitions but never mocks him for his beliefs, could also be someone who scours the plains for dirty thieves and murderers and outlaws.

Someone who had drifted in on the heels of a rainstorm months ago, asking for shelter with a sheepish grin on his face and a drooping hat, and kept coming back.

_Nothin’ but trouble_ , Ryan had thought then, and he thinks the same now, though it’s with a decidedly greater amount of fondness than when he’d first ushered Shane into his house, suspicious of all newcomers until they’d proven they weren’t after his land or his life (and God knows, there’d been more than a few of those).

Shane tilts his head against the pillow, a placid expression on his face. “Why, I’m right as rain, so far as I can tell. Just a little banged up.”

“ _Banged up_ \- “ Ryan doesn’t even realize he’s taken another step closer until Shane’s eyes widen, just a fraction. “You were knocked clean unconscious by the time you rode up here, soaked to the bone and bleeding from that shot in your side. Andrew spent half the night trying to set you to the rights and you’re laying there pretty as you please, actin’ like… like… “ He trails off, his voice, having gained a good deal of volume during his irritated tirade, fading into silence.

Shane watches him for a time, a contemplative twist to his lips, something curious and fond and surprised all at once. Ryan doesn’t know how to react to that look and so doesn’t try, not until Shane clears his throat and ventures, “You think I’m pretty?”

Ryan blows out an irritated breath, slumping into the chair Andrew had left by the bed. It creaks beneath his weight. “If you weren’t already injured I’d shoot you myself.”

Shane’s lips curl, the sleepy slant of his eyes bringing a softness to his face that Ryan is disgusted to find himself endeared by. “You’d do no such thing. You’d miss my company too much.”

Ryan scoffs. “Lies and slander,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair and sighing as some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders.

“You should sleep,” Shane tells him, his voice softer, humor set aside for now.

Ryan closes his eyes, shakes his head. “Can’t. There’s work to be done and fools to look after.”

“That’s no way to talk about your ranch hands, Ryan. Mr. Lim in particular would be mighty offended, I think.”

Ryan squints open one eye and fixes Shane with a glare. “Don’t,” he says, and curses himself as he feels his lips twitch. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m angry with you.”

“It won’t last,” Shane says, with all the confidence of a man who would know. “It never does.”

“Yeah, well.” Ryan pushes his hat up, rubs at his brow. “Suppose that makes me a fool then, too.”

“The best men are,” Shane replies with a shrug, only to wince as the action pulls at his wound.

Ryan shakes his head, scrubbing at his tired face. “What happened out there, Shane? Who did this to you?”

Shane curls a hand over his side. “I found ‘em, Ryan. The whole lot of ‘em. Bunch of dirty bastards holed up in some shithole up in the mountains, fat and drunk and _happy_.” He laughs, though it isn’t a pleasant sound. “A mighty good time they were havin’ up in those hills, Ryan. You should’a seen ‘em.”

Ryan leans forward, hands curled around his knees. He wants to reach over, bridge the small space between them and do – something, he doesn’t know what. Anything to wipe that look clear of Shane’s face.

“It surprised ‘em, seein’ me. Guess they weren’t expecting company.” The fingers wrapped around his side clench, and though it must aggravate his wound, Shane doesn’t flinch. “Managed to get a few of ‘em down before they thought to reach for their weapons, but, well. There was only one ‘a me.”

A spark of anger settles thick and hot in the pit of Ryan’s belly, makes his teeth grind in the back of his mouth. The desire to find these sorry sons of bitches and put them down himself is so overwhelming, so all consuming, that for the first time since meeting Shane, he understands the urge to _hunt_.

“Wanna hear something funny, Ry? One of ‘em recognized me. Big bull of a man, not too bright, but he remembered me. Guess there’s no forgettin’ this handsome face.”

Ryan shakes his head, doesn’t let himself be distracted by Shane’s poor attempt at humor. “They’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘em, Shane. One way or another.”

Shane nods. His lips twist in a smile. “Give me a couple 'a days, Ryan, and I'll make sure of that.”

* * *

Shane seems determined to keep his word, his own limitations (and his own health) be damned. He's up and out of bed in three days, despite Andrew's warnings and Ryan's exasperated glares, and waves away every offer of help with a grin that wavers whenever a wrong move pulls at the wound in his side.

_Goddamned stubborn idiot_ , Ryan thinks as he helps Shane down the stairs, one hand anchoring Shane’s arm around his shoulder and the other wrapped firmly around Shane’s waist. He’d agreed to let Shane out of bed only if he’d keep to the front porch where Ryan could keep an eye on him, and he’s already resigned himself to not getting a damn thing done, because Shane still looks wan and stretched thin, and it’s a testament to how weak he must feel that he’s slumped entirely against Ryan.

“You’re thinkin’ uncharitable thoughts about me,” Shane murmurs as Ryan nudges the front door open. There’s a thread of amusement in his voice, though Ryan’s more concerned with the heaviness of his breath and what it means for his health that the short trek from the bedroom to the front door tired him out so much.

“Those are the _only_ thoughts I have about you,” Ryan returns promptly, settling Shane carefully in a rocking chair, already padded with a pillow, and tossing a quilt his mother had made him years ago over the long length of those ridiculous legs.

Shane’s smiling, which is annoying, and then he says, “You missed me,” which is _insufferable_.

“Don’t know where you’d get an idea like that,” Ryan mutters, pretending to be invested in pushing his hair back and settling his hat on top of his head. There’s a warmth in his face that he can’t blame entirely on the early morning sun, and it’s doing nothing but riling him up more. Shane’s always done that, for as long as Ryan’s known him – driven him around the bend with little more than a grin and a wink, like Ryan’s some country maid all aflutter at the first sign of attention from a handsome cowpoke.

Shane laughs, a low huff of a thing. “You can deny it all you want, Bergara, but I know. You’ve been waitin’ at your window these last few weeks just pinin’ away for a glimpse of this face.” He leans back in the rocker, closing his eyes and settling his hands – long, tapered fingers and wide, smooth palms – low over his belly. “Well, don’t fret for nothin’, sweetheart. I’ll still be here for a while yet, if this damnable scratch has any say.”

Ryan shakes his head in disbelief, his mouth opening as if to speak before he thinks better of it, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click and reminding Shane to take it easy before he’s off the porch and heading toward the barn. His face is aflame, his heart making too much noise inside his chest, and for what? Some pretty words?

Ridiculous.

* * *

Shane’s eagerness to hit the trail seems to fade as the days pass. He heals slowly, painfully, though Andrew tries to soothe the way as best he can. His strength returns, bit by bit, until he’s no longer confined to the house but taking slow strolls around the ranch, usually with Ryan or one of the ranch hands by his side. Soon pink, jagged scar tissue builds over the bloody hole the gunshot had left behind, and Ryan tries not to take too much notice of the others just like it when Andrew changes out the bandages – some thin, some not, scattered across Shane’s broad back and slender chest.

“You think he’ll stick around this time?” Jen asks him, hands curled around the reins as she drives them back from town nearly two weeks after Shane’s arrival, the wagon filled with food and supplies that should hopefully last them the month.

Ryan shrugs, tipping his head back to watch the sun slowly sinking beyond the clouds. “Never does,” he answers, noncommittal.

“He might, though,” Jen says, flicking the reins. He can feel her eyes on him. “If you asked.”

“Why would I do that?” he asks, feigning interest in a spot of dirt on his boot.

Jen sighs. “You’re not a stupid man, Ryan. Not a blind one, either, so stop actin’ like it.” She shoots him a look, half-fond and half-scolding, and then adds, a touch cautious, “You remember my – my girl back home?”

Ryan nods. “Maycie?” Daughter of the Mayor, with her pick of wealthy suitors the whole county over. Her Daddy running Jen out of town hadn’t changed the fact that Maycie wanted none of them, and she was headstrong enough to let him know it.

Jen smiles, soft and proud, all at once. “She sent me a letter, said she’s comin’ down. Told her Daddy she’s made up her mind and if he won’t see her way about things, she’ll not spend another night in his house.”

“Brave girl,” Ryan says, impressed. He envies that kind of courage.

Jen nods. “That she is. She knows what she wants and she won’t let no one take it from her, not if she can help it.”

As far as comparisons go, it isn’t subtle, but then, Jen’s never been the type to beat around the bush. Ryan blows out a breath, rubbing at his brow. “Shane isn’t – he’s not mine to take, Jen.” It costs a lot for him to say it, to give the words breath and life. Out of the solitude of his own thoughts, they’re twice as frightening.

Jen snorts. “Says you. Stubborn asses, the both of you. He’s never offered up the answer because you’ve never thought to _ask_.”

“I’ve thought about it plenty,” Ryan replies, shorter than he means to be.

Jen glances at him. “Then why haven’t you done it?”

_Because he could say no_. It’s only a thought, one he hasn’t found the courage to voice yet, and so all he says is, “It doesn’t matter, Jen.” He tips his hat down low over his eyes and slumps in the seat to signal an end to the conversation; Jen sighs, muttering about the pigheadedness of men, but doesn’t push him for more.

Dusk is just beginning to settle by the time they return to the ranch. The cattle have been herded out to pasture since they’ve been gone; Ryan can see them from a distance, along with the barely discernible forms of Ned, Keith, Zach, and Eugene keeping watch over the herd. They pass Andrew and Steven on the way towards the barn, the pair sharing Andrew’s dappled gray mare. “We’re running short on a few medicinal herbs,” Andrew says by way of explanation, guiding his horse toward the wide stretch of fields beyond the ranch. “We’ll be back shortly.”

Ryan shares a knowing look with Jen as they pass, both of them taking note of Steven’s arms wrapped firmly around Andrew’s waist and the lack of satchel or saddlebag between them to carry these supposed herbs, but says nothing.

He’s not searching for Shane, yet his eyes seek him out anyway – in the corral, surrounded by some of the more curious horses, and laughing loudly as they nudge at his cheeks and shoulders. Jen takes one look at him and snorts, nudging Ryan toward the corral after they've both climbed down from the wagon.

“I’ll have Zack help me unload,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder and pushing him forward. Ryan opens his mouth to argue but one look from her freezes the protest on his tongue, and he ambles over to the corral without a word.

He leans against the fence, deciding not to call attention to himself just yet. Shane’s stroking the head of a familiar black mare and Ryan’s torn between annoyance (because Isabella should know better) and resignation (because of course she doesn’t; she’s just like him, easily swayed by a little sweetness and soft for idiots with death wishes).

“He’s good with them.”

Ryan flicks his gaze to the side, where Kelsey has settled in against the fence, copying his pose. Her boots and trousers are caked with dust; she must have just returned from a ride.

“Mm,” he hums, watching Isabella nudge Shane’s chin with her nose. Shane’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. "He's got 'em all fooled," he says, his lips curling of their own accord as Isabella nuzzles at Shane's shirt.

"You too?" Kelsey asks, amused. She laughs lightly at the look on his face, though it's not unkind. "You've been happier these past few weeks than I’ve seen you in a long while. Shane's a good influence."

“Shane’s a terrible influence,” Ryan replies automatically, because it’s true. It had been easier before they’d met, when all Ryan had to focus on – all he _needed_ \- was the ranch. Keeping her cared for, keeping her safe. And it’s easier when Shane’s gone, because Ryan can fool himself back into that mindset, that routine, where the ranch is his only concern. He can’t do that when Shane’s here, when Shane’s sleeping in his guestroom and spending warm evenings on his porch, playing cards or sharing a drink before bed. He can’t do that when Shane keeps showing up with gunshot wounds and bloody knuckles and haunted eyes. One of these days he’s afraid Shane won’t show up at all.

Kelsey sighs, crossing her wrists and settling one worn boot on the fence. “I don’t think you believe that at all,” she hums, her hair spilling over her shoulder as she tilts her head, studying him. Ryan tries to remain stoic, but a high whinny from the corral breaks his concentration: it’s Isabella, playfully stamping her hooves as Shane holds out a sugar cube, his lips spread in a teasing smile. Faced with such a sight, Ryan can’t control the grin spreading across his own lips. He hears Kelsey’s soft laugh beside him but ignores it, as well as the heat pooling just beneath the apples of his cheeks. It’s a warm afternoon, that’s all. He’s been out in the sun too long.

“Brace yourself,” Kelsey says a moment later, nudging his shoulder with her own. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Ryan cuts his eyes to the side, away from Shane and Isabella, and nearly yelps as he comes face to face with Huckleberry, Shane’s great beast of a horse, golden head tilted as if in question and dark eyes settled on Ryan.

Ryan glowers. “You’re far too stealthy for such a big beast,” he complains, reaching out to run his fingers through the pale, silvery hair falling over Huckleberry’s brow.

Huckleberry snorts, neck shivering as he arches his head into the caress. Beside him, Kelsey cups her chin in her palm and smiles.

“I think he’s sweet on you,” she murmurs, lips twitching as Huckleberry snorts again, and somehow, without asking, Ryan knows she’s not talking about the horse. He can feel the weight of eyes on him from the corral, knows that if he glances up he’ll see Shane, and the weight of that attention darkens his cheeks and sends a familiar though oft ignored flush of warmth to the pit of his belly. He runs his fingers through Huckleberry’s mane and tries to ignore it.

He fails.

* * *

“Go riding with me.”

Ryan pushes wet fingers through his hair, his skin tingling pleasantly from the water he’d just splashed onto his face, and gives Shane a once-over. The color has long since returned to his cheeks and though he still favors his right side, he’s far enough along in his recovery that Andrew no longer protests when he helps with chores around the ranch or takes Huckleberry out for a ride in the fields. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes, _doc_ ,” Shane insists, smiling as Ryan’s eyes narrow in annoyance. “Right as rain, have been for days. Just ask Andrew if you don’t believe me.”

Ryan tilts his head, considering. “Just you and me?” Shane has his pick of companions on the ranch; Ryan has seen him tossing horseshoes with Ned and tending to the horses with Kelsey, not to mention the way he and Zach carry on with all the stray cats that prowl the place.

“Just you an’ me,” Shane tells him, wearing one of his more genuine smiles, smaller and less mischievous than its brethren.

Ryan swallows. There’s a part of him that warns against it, a voice whispering that he’s asking for trouble if he accepts, no matter how innocuous Shane’s request might be. “Gettin’ too attached,” it murmurs, anxious fingers plucking at his heart, and it’s right. He’s become too familiar with Shane’s presence on the ranch and all the intricacies of sharing a routine that, up until this point, he’d carried out alone: quiet mornings in an empty house have become shared mugs of coffee with a sleepy-eyed Shane, daily chores completed amidst silly squabbles over who can finish their task first or whose company the animals like best, evening meals around the fire with Jen and the others rife with Shane coaxing Ryan to “play a tune for us, Bergara!” and giving Ryan doe eyes when he refuses.

He should refuse now, harden his heart to the fact that none of this can last, that one morning he’ll wake to find Shane’s hat and coat gone from the front peg and Huckleberry missing from the stables. It’s happened before, he reminds himself.

“Alright,” he says, despite all of that. Ryan’s never had a whole lotta sense when it comes to Shane; Jen would agree with him, he’s sure, before sending him one of those looks he tends to ignore, sad-eyed and full of sympathetic understanding.

The threat of the inevitable doesn’t stop the excitement from twisting in his gut as he saddles Isabella, nor does it smother the grin on his face when she stamps at the ground and snorts, apparently as eager as he is to be set loose across the plains. He leads her from the stables with a click of his tongue and pats the long arch of her neck as she trots out into the sun.

“Ready to run, girl?” he murmurs, and smiles as she whinnies.

“Care to make a wager?” Shane pipes up as Huckleberry falls into step alongside Isabella.

Ryan shoots him a glance, one eyebrow quirked. “What sort?”

“A race. First one to Dewberry Creek wins. How about it?”

“Depends.” Ryan nudges Isabella into a canter, anticipation spilling through his blood as Shane follows suit, Huckleberry keeping pace easily. “What’ll I win once I beat you?”

Shane laughs, a bright spark of sound catching fire across Ryan’s shoulders and dancing down the length of his spine. “S’too early to be so cocky, darlin’,” he warns, mischief in the tilt of his lips.

Ryan flashes his teeth in a challenging grin. “Don’t call me darlin’,” he says, sweet as he can muster, and with a shout urges Isabella into a run.

“You scoundrel!” Shane calls after him, followed by the heavy tread of Huckleberry’s hooves straight behind them. A quick glance over his shoulder shows the pair gaining on them fast, but not fast enough, and a laugh bubbles up from Ryan throat as Isabella surges beneath him, the ground flying beneath her hooves.

The rest of the world falls away, discarded and left to swelter in Isabella’s dust. Ryan’s always felt more at home in her saddle than anywhere else, the two of them moving as one beast, a streak of black lightning darting over the earth, and it’s no different now. It’s better, with Shane and Huckleberry on their heels, knowing that all he has to do is glance over his shoulder to find them. In the privacy of his own head he can admit that he wants them close, wants them to _stay_ , but if this is all he gets, then he’ll take it. He’ll take it.

* * *

“You’re a cheat, Ryan Bergara,” Shane claims, arms crossed over his chest as Huckleberry ducks his head to drink from the creek.

Ryan snorts, though the adrenaline flooding his veins makes it difficult to smother a smile. “Don’t pout, Madej,” he teases, patting Isabella’s neck. He feels out of breath, windblown and wild. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Shane narrows his eyes, his expression of displeasure holding for a moment more before he folds, breathing out a laugh. “Good lord, you really are a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

“Only when it’s deserved,” Ryan returns with a careless smirk, climbing down from Isabella’s back to stretch his legs. Shane huffs but follows suit, and they leave the horses be to wander a ways downstream, nothing but the wind and the rustle of small game in the underbrush to break the silence that has fallen between them.

"You don't get to do this much, do you?" Shane speaks up eventually, bending down to dip his hands in the cool water, rubbing away the dirt and grit from a hard ride.

Ryan studies his bent head. "Not really. Too much work to do, doesn’t leave time for joyridin’.”

Shane hums, his fingers curling in the water and rubbing away the grit from his face and throat. They’re long and slender, pale despite long hours in the sun, and Ryan watches them, a little transfixed. He’s seen them wrapped around the neck of a bottle, clenched around a heavy bale of hay, even cupped around the cheeks of the old, ornery tomcat that likes to sunbathe on Ryan’s front porch. He’s yet to see them curled around the trigger of a gun, doesn’t think he’d like it much.

“Does it make you happy?”

Ryan jumps, Shane’s voice bringing him back to the present quick enough that he can jerk his eyes away from those hands before Shane peers up at him.

“The ranch,” Shane clarifies, tilting his head. Messy strands of hair cling to his brow and curl around his ears.

“I’ve never known any different,” Ryan says, tearing his gaze away and kneeling by the creek. His face is hot; he plunges one hand into the water and pushes at the brim of his hat, dragging a wet palm over his forehead. “It’s what’s left of my parents, my childhood, and it’s a haven for – for the people that need one.”

Shane lets out a breath, not quite a laugh, but close.

“What?” Ryan asks, defensive as he cuts his eyes over to his companion. His shoulders draw up beneath his shirt, muscles bunching unconsciously. Beneath Shane’s gaze he feels picked over and left clean, naked. It’s not an entirely unpleasant.

“Nothin’, it’s just. The way you talk about her, and about them, Jen and Steven and the others – You’re like a big mama wolf lookin’ after her pups.” Shane grins, his eyes mischievous and warm. “Mama Bergara.”

Ryan purses his lips. “I’d rather you call me darlin’, if it’s all the same to you.”

“S’gotta nice ring to it though,” Shane tells him, tossing in a wink for good measure, and Ryan scoffs. He imagines the man must be a natural in the parlour house, charmin’ ladies and gents left and right.

“What does that make you then?” he asks, rising to his feet and working the slight ache from his legs.

Shane shrugs, the gesture fluid and easy, unconcerned. “An interloper.”

Ryan frowns. “I don’t believe that,” he says, ignoring the way Shane’s peering up at him, eyes dark beneath the brim of his hat. “You’d make a piss poor wolf, I’ll admit. Too scrawny, trippin’ all over those long legs. You’re no interloper, though.”

Shane tilts his head. Water drips from his chin, shining in the stubble along his cheeks. “What would I be then?”

_A bird_. The thought flits through Ryan’s head, too sharp and too sudden, making his lips twist. Shane’s too close to flying already, Ryan doesn’t want to hurry him along. “A buck,” he settles on, appreciating the bark of Shane’s laughter.

“A buck?” Shane repeats, pleasantly surprised. “What’s your reasonin’ there?”

“Just look at you!” Ryan urges him up, attempting to dredge up some annoyance as he’s forced to crane his neck to meet Shane’s eyes and finding none. “All long-legged and spry, silent as the grave when you want to be. Not too intimidatin’ to look at – “

Shane gasps. “Why, I never – “

“But,” Ryan interrupts, raising his voice to be heard over Shane’s theatrics. “Fierce, when you need to be. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous, huh?” Shane takes a step closer, reaching over to thumb at the brim of Ryan’s hat. “You intimidated by me, Bergara?”

Ryan rolls his eyes, though his shoulders draw tight beneath the barrier of his shirt. Standing toe to toe like this, Shane looming above him, Ryan can understand how someone might quell in his presence. “A wolf, afraid of some buck?” He clucks his tongue. “I don’t think so.”

Shane chuckles, low and warm. “Eh, guess you’re right,” he says, flicking Ryan’s hat with his finger. “It’d take more than some young buck to scare off Mama Wolf Bergara.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Ryan shoots back, and shoves Shane straight into the creek bed.

* * *

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. It was your own fault, really.”

“My own - ?! _Ryan_ , you _pushed_ me!”

Ryan scoffs, fighting down a smile. “It’s those long legs of yours, big guy. You went and tripped right over them.”

“Lies!” One of the cows dozing in the pen startles at the sound of Shane’s voice, setting off the rest of the herd into a cacophony of low, irritated mooing. “You – You _accost_ me, and then have the nerve to blame me for your crimes! You’re a cad, Ryan Bergara. A no-good, dirty, rotten scoundrel.”

“Takes one to know one, friend,” Ryan tosses back, nearly cackling at Shane’s affronted look. A blanket of quiet has settled over the ranch in their absence, dusk having fallen before their return, and it lends a surrealistic edge to their surroundings, as if they’re the only two wandering the earth. It’s a strange thought, almost a frightening one, but not unpleasant. Not in the least.

They dismount outside the barn, and in a fit of generosity Ryan pushes Shane toward the house. “Go get yourself cleaned up, I’ll take care of the horses.”

Shane sniffs, turning his nose up like some snobby socialite. “It’s the least you can do, I suppose,” he grouses, only to break character with a toothy grin as he saunters away, leaving Ryan to his task.

It doesn’t take long; Isabella and Huckleberry both get a brush down before Ryan leaves them to rest in stalls beside each other, nudging the barn door closed with a murmured goodnight to the animals bedded down inside.

The house is just across the road, the path from the barn to his front door a well-worn and achingly familiar one, yet as he takes his first step Ryan’s drawn up short by the sight of pale cream walls and worn rocking chairs illuminated by warm golden light. It spills from the front windows, drenching the porch in a welcoming glow, and waiting in one of the rockers, his hat discarded and hair fluffy and wild from a hurried pass of a towel, sits Shane, one long leg crossed over the other and fingers steepled across his belly.

Something like longing, or hope, or fear takes a hold of Ryan’s heart and holds on tight. How long will he have this, he wonders. Even injured, Shane never usually spends longer than a few weeks in one place – he’d told Ryan so before, and Ryan’s seen it himself time and time again. Who’s to say now will be any different?

_He’s never offered up the answer because you’ve never thought to **ask**_.

And why not? He had refused to answer Jen then, but not because he didn’t know. It was fear, plain and simple. Fear that held his tongue, fear that made him jerk his eyes away when Shane stumbled downstairs in nothing but his shirtsleeves and trousers, soft and sleepy-eyed in the mornings, fear that made him bluster in Shane’s presence, reaching for annoyance and anger because they were so much easier to accept, to understand.

Ryan is so tired of being afraid.

“Where ya off to, bud?” Shane asks, head cocked as Ryan pulls the front door open with a creak of aging wood.

“Need to grab somethin’,” Ryan answers, lips twitching into a smile that wobbles a little on the edges. “I’ll be back.”

His heart’s in his throat as he climbs the stairs to his room – his parent’s room, once upon a time. After their deaths he’d been comforted by the lingering traces of their presence, and found it far easier to find sleep there than in his own room. He doesn’t linger, grabbing for what he’d come in for and returning to the porch, swallowing down a sudden rush of nerves as Shane straightens in his chair.

“What’s this?” he asks, a look of genuine surprise on his face.

“What’s it look like?” Ryan asks, taking the chair beside Shane’s and settling his guitar in his lap. “I’m aimin’ to claim my prize. I won our little race earlier, you remember?” He plucks the strings, his fingers fitting into the grooves with a familiarity that warms him from the inside out, and raises his brows expectantly.

“I don’t – How is this - ?” Ryan almost laughs – it’s not every day he gets to see Shane Madej struggling for words.

“You know this one, don’t try an’ tell me otherwise.” Ryan coaxes a melody from the strings, sweet and familiar, and smiles as Shane sucks in a breath and presses a hand to his heart.

“Oh, that one’s a beauty,” he says, and the reverence in his voice warms Ryan to the core. “But – this feels more like my prize than yours.”

Ryan had figured as much, with as often as Shane had goaded him into playing. “Figured we could share in the spoils, what with your… mishap.”

Shane barks a laugh. “My _mishap_ , he calls it,” he mutters, shaking his head as if he can’t believe Ryan’s guff. “What would you have me do, then? Afraid I’ve got no gift for guitar playin’.”

“You can sing though.” Ryan plucks at the strings, the familiar melody drifting soft as silk on the cool breeze, and sends Shane a smile. “Can’t you?”

Shane huffs a breath of laughter, looking strangely touched. “Usually you complain about my singin’,” he says, quiet.

Ryan rolls his shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Feeling generous, I suppose.”

“My Spanish ain’t much to write home about, you know,” Shane continues, less as an attempt to dissuade Ryan and more of a gentle reminder. “You’ll have to guide me along.”

Ryan smiles. “I can do that.”

He strums the opening chords of the song once more, this time allowing his voice to join the melody, softly at first but rising steadily as Shane joins him, until they’re both crooning the familiar lullaby. Shane was right about his Spanish, and Ryan’s lips curl around a smile as Shane butchers more than a few of the words. It’s sweet, though, in a way, that Shane knows the song as well as he does, that he’s heard it often enough to remember the words.

It had been Ryan’s favorite throughout childhood, sung nightly at his and his brother’s bedside by their mother, her voice soothing them to sleep. It fills him with a sense of peace now, hearing his and Shane’s voices drifting on the night breeze together, carrying them into the soft dark of the ranch and far beyond.

Ryan plays until his fingers ache, until he and Shane have gone through most of the songs they know by heart, bar shanties and bawdy ballads and soft, mournful love songs that make Ryan’s breath catch and hold in his chest, just listening to Shane croon the words with his voice all soft and whiskey smooth.

“I’ve always liked it here,” Shane says, after the last notes have long faded away and they’ve grown quiet. “Huckleberry, too,” he adds with a laugh. “Look what he did! There I was, good as dead, and he brought me straight to your door.”

“He’s a smart horse,” Ryan says, tilting his head to glance at Shane’s profile, the curve of his brow and the line of his nose illuminated in the light spilling from the windows. “You could learn a thing or two from him.”

Shane grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That I could.” His face grows a little solemn, his gaze trained on the stretch of dark night sky above their heads. “Think he knew what I needed better than I did, in the end. Bringin’ me here.”

Ryan swallows, fingers curling around the arms of the rocker. _This is it, you fool_ , he thinks. _Just say it. Say it now_.

“You know, you – you’ve always got a place. Here. You’re always welcome.” It’s not entirely what he wants to say, but it’s more than he’s admitted to beyond the safety of his own head in months, and for a moment it’s enough, just to watch the way Shane’s mouth parts, his eyes flicking to Ryan’s and darting quickly away, as though he can’t hold the contact for too long.

“You mean that?” he asks, and he’s trying to spin it into a joke, a yarn, but the nervous twitch of his smile gives him away. “Surprised you haven’t grown sick a’ me yet, truth be told. Surely I’ve outstayed my welcome by now.”

“Not a bit,” Ryan answers, feeling the fear leeching away, feeling those anxious fingers untangling from his mind for the first time in a long, long while. “You should – you should know that. That you’re always welcome here. Part a’ the pack, Madej, just like the rest of us. Can’t be helped.”

Shane laughs, though it’s a soft, trembling thing. “Not a buck no more, huh?” He glances at Ryan, running a hand through his wild hair. Doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to say, though eventually he clears his throat and admits, “S’been a long time since I belonged anywhere.”

Ryan wants to reach across, breach what little distance stands between them and offer – well, he doesn’t know what. Comfort. Sympathy. Touch. But he’s admitted to so much already, more than he thought he ever would, and his courage flags, leaves him with only words. “You belong here,” he says, his voice as firm as he can muster. “ _Shane_. You belong _here_.”

Shane shoots him a tremulous smile. Devoid of bluster or humor, it’s a tiny, fleeting thing, but it’s enough.

Goddamn it, it’s enough.

* * *

Ryan wakes to the cold chill of the night wind against his cheek. The air feels heavier, weighted down with something – rain, he thinks blearily, and blinks, scrubbing at his eyes. He straightens up in the rocker, wincing at the twinge of pain in his lower back. A familiar quilt slips down his torso and pools in his lap, and he perks up, glancing over to the chair alongside his, only to find it empty.

His breath stutters, a heavy weight settling into the pit of his stomach. He rises slowly, ignoring the painful twinge of his back from falling asleep in the chair, and nudges the front door open.

The pegs are empty, just like he knew they would be.

_Damn you_ , he thinks, his fingers curling around the doorframe, digging in. _S’been a long time since I belonged anywhere_ flits through his head, Shane’s voice whisper-soft, and he pushes away from the door, his boots thudding hard against the porch.

_You goddamn idiot_ , he curses, sorrow and anger twisting inside of him, writhing about in his chest like some great beast. _You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to tell me all of that and then just **run away**_.

It isn’t until he’s halfway to the barn that he realizes the door is cracked open. His stomach drops, heart pounding as he surges forward, and then he’s inside, jerking his head toward Huckleberry’s stall, and -

"Where are you going?"

Shane doesn’t look at him. His shoulders tighten beneath his duster, but he continues to adjust Huckleberry’s tack, seemingly nonplussed by Ryan’s violent entrance. “Back to the mountain. I should’a went a week ago. Weeks ago. I’ve lost time; the bastards will be long gone but I can still pick up the trail.”

Ryan had known this was coming, and yet the confirmation that Shane is going back, even while the scar they’d left him with is still new and pink, sits on Ryan’s chest like a boulder poised to crush him.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he says, and his voice shakes, not with fear this time but _anger_.

Shane glances at him, just a quick flick of his eyes before he turns back to his horse and tightens the strap of his saddle. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and frowns when Ryan laughs, sharp and incredulous.

“Fine?” he asks, taking another step closer. “ _This_ is fine? Runnin’ off into the wild unknown, gettin’ yourself riddled with bullet holes just to take revenge on a bunch of animals – “

“And what would you have me do, Ryan?” Shane’s voice is calm, low, and though he’s never heard it until this moment, Ryan recognizes the anger coating the words. Shane’s eyes are dark on his face, watching him with a depth of scrutiny that is nothing like that gentle, searching gaze from a few short hours ago, and it shakes something loose in Ryan’s chest, something heavy that sinks into the pit of his stomach and makes him feel ill.

“I would – I would have you stay.” This isn’t the way he’d wanted to say those words, not with so much anger and frustration choking the air between them, but they flee from his lips anyway, hanging, suspended, waiting for whatever judgement or condemnation Shane sees fit to give.

Shane goes terribly still, his hands frozen on Huckleberry’s saddle. “You would have me stay?” he repeats, no inflection in his voice that Ryan can place.

His heart begins to pound, rabbit-fast. “Yes. Here, on the ranch.” _With me_.

Shane closes his eyes, his lips twisting. “I can’t,” he says, but his voice is a wavering, unsteady thing.

“Why not?” Ryan takes another step closer, and another when Shane refuses to answer. “Why, Shane?” he presses, his boot heels rasping against the ground, kicking up dust. Outside, he can hear the faint rumble of rain drops pelting the earth. Another storm. “ _Shane_. Why can’t you stay?”

A bitten-off growl is Ryan’s only warning before Shane is turning, breaching the distance between them in two short, angry strides, reaching for Ryan –

But not in violence. No, nowhere near it, though his mouth is hard against Ryan’s, his fingers dragging roughly over Ryan’s cheeks and throat.

Ryan gasps, the sound swallowed up by Shane’s mouth, Shane’s lips, the rasp of his stubble against Ryan’s fingers as Ryan reaches for him, cupping his cheeks. Pulling him _in_.

Shane says his name, half-muffled and stunned, but Ryan shakes his head, surges up and catches Shane’s mouth again, pushes fingers through Shane’s hair and knocks his hat to the ground.

_This_ is what he’d wanted, what he’d _been_ wanting, all of those desires he’d buried deep finally unearthed and thrust into the light for Shane to see.

And Shane _will_ see, Ryan will show him, time and time again if need be, until there’s never any doubt, until he _understands_.

“You’re a fool, Shane Madej,” he breathes against Shane’s mouth, and Shane – the great goddamned idiot – _laughs_ , sharp and bright and tinged with wonder, a sound so lovely Ryan has to taste it for himself.

* * *

They’re soaked to the bone, fingers wet and clothes dripping. Ryan feels like a colt as they stumble up the stairs and into his bedroom, his limbs new and strange, too needy and all the more clumsy for it.

But Shane’s skin is warm, dragging smooth and hot against his palms, and Ryan can forgive his own eagerness to lay his hands on it: on the curves of Shane’s cheeks, thumbs dragging through his scruff, damp with rainwater; along the sides of Shane’s throat, feeling his pulse jump and shudder beneath Ryan’s fingertips; down the long line of his back, raking through wet fabric and then slipping underneath, hearing Shane draw in a sharp breath, feeling him shiver. Water sluices his hair and drips from his beard, makes his ruddy cheeks shine, and Ryan’s heart aches painfully at the sight.

Shane was almost gone. If Ryan had woken a few moments later he would have found more than just Shane’s duster missing from the front peg, and there would have been nothing he could do for it but wait. He’s tired of waiting.

“Off,” he rumbles, pulling at Shane’s clothes, his voice shaking with need. He doesn’t have one goddamned clue what he’s doing, working off some instinct buried deep, one that hungers for heat and skin and _Shane_.

“Yours too,” Shane huffs against his mouth, pressing a hard kiss to his lips before taking a step back. Ryan bites back a whine at the loss of his warmth, but Shane’s watching him, dark-eyed and demanding as he reaches for his shirt buttons, and it’s enough to send a wave of heat rushing down Ryan’s spine. He makes quick work of his own clothes, barely paying attention to the motion of his fingers or the chill of the air against his bare skin as he lets them pool on the floor, so focused on Shane, on his broad shoulders and tall, skinny frame, the rounded curves of his hips and those long legs. His eyes catch on the bright pink scar along Shane’s side and his hand comes up to splay over the skin, fingers stroking over tender, rain-slick flesh.

Shane’s stomach jumps at the touch. “Ryan,” he breathes, his hands twitching at his sides.

_He wants to touch me_. The thought shivers through Ryan, seeping deep beneath his skin and into his blood, chasing away the cold. His fingers clench around Shane’s side, his other hand coming up to grip the back of Shane’s neck, feverish with want before their mouths even meet.

He’s never felt a thing like it, the rasp of stubble against his lips and chin, the scent of leather and dust and horseflesh filling his senses, overlaid with the scent of Shane himself, something rich and hot – sweat and earth, skin and rain. Shane’s tongue curls into his open mouth and Ryan moans, surging beneath him, sending them both toppling onto the rumpled bed.

“Shit, your side – “ Ryan murmurs, lips catching against Shane’s. He pushes his palms to the bed, holding his weight aloft, but Shane shakes his head, a soft laugh falling into the space between them.

“S’alright,” he breathes, his hands wrapping around Ryan’s hips, huge and so fucking _warm_ , like heated brands against Ryan’s skin. “Doin’ just fine right where I am, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” Ryan mumbles, feeling his face heat and an echoing spark alight in his belly.

Shane smirks. “You sure about that? Seems to me like you enjoy it.” His eyes flick between them, to where Ryan’s cock curves against his belly, hard and flushed red at the tip, before his hand follows suit, wrapping loosely around the base. “Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

Ryan buries a curse into the bend of his own shoulder, breath coming fast and hard as Shane’s fist pulls up his shaft, tightening as it reaches the head. “Fuh – fuck you, Shane,” he whispers, his voice a strangled rasp as Shane’s thumb smooths along his slit, spreading wetness across his skin and shivers up his spine.

“That what you want?” Shane barely sounds winded, his lips curled into a teasing smile, and Ryan would hate him for that if he couldn’t feel Shane’s cock bumping up against his own, hard and flushed pink and - _fuck_ \- just as long as the rest of him.

For a moment he imagines it, in the same half-vague, fevered way he’s dreamt it – Shane driving into him, filling him with heat. Ryan has little idea how they’d accomplish it or how the length tucked hotly against his own would even fit inside him, but just the possibility has his stomach fluttering with nervous desire.

It must show on his face, for all that the mirth practically falls from Shane’s. “Gods above, Ryan Bergara,” he murmurs, his hand smoothing over Ryan’s side and up along his chest. He splays his fingers wide, his nail catching on Ryan’s nipple, and Ryan whimpers. “There ain’t nothing like you, not anywhere.”

They’re just words, pretty and sweet, but Ryan buckles beneath the weight of them. “Then why do you keep runnin’ off and leaving me behind?”

Shane’s eyes go wide, dark with surprise and clouded with pain, or shame, or both. His mouth opens, but Ryan’s not interested in any more pretty words, doesn’t need them. He just needs this, Shane stretched out beneath him, chest rumbling with a moan as Ryan ducks down to kiss him, hungry and wet and deep.

_Stay_ , he thinks, as Shane’s lips turn soft and slick beneath his, as he reaches between them to curl his fingers around Shane’s cock. _You stay or you take me with you, because I’ll be damned if I’m letting you go off alone again_.

Shane keens beneath him as though he’s heard every word, his strokes picking up in earnest, spreading slick down the length of Ryan’s shaft. Ryan moans brokenly and squeezes his fingers around the base of Shane’s cock, feeling him pulse within the circle of his grip. Rain lashes against the window as they writhe together, hips rolling and sweat beading in the hollow of their throats. Grunts and whines spill into the darkness, the musk of sex thick in the air, and Ryan gasps as Shane surges beneath him, flipping them over until he’s poised above Ryan and wrapping his fingers around both of their lengths.

Ryan tosses his head back, teeth clenched around a moan as Shane strokes them together, his grip tight and slick with their own fluids. A hot mouth presses against his throat and he scrambles to wrap his fingers tight in Shane’s hair, spearing through the damp strands as Shane nips at his skin, working a bruise into his flesh.

The bed creaks beneath them, their hips stuttering. Ryan’s legs wind around Shane’s hips, squeezing tight as heat pools in his belly.

“C’mon, that’s it,” Shane’s murmuring against his throat, mouthing along his chin and over the bend of his jaw, breath hot and eyes blazing. “Let it go, darlin’, let me feel it.”

“ _God_ ,” Ryan moans, a strangled shout rending the air as his release creeps upon him and grabs on tight, his belly and thighs clenching as he spills over Shane’s fingers and onto his own chest, wetness seeping into the wiry curls at his groin.

Shane kisses him deep, swallowing his cries, and gasps, “Lord, Ryan, you’re so – “ before he’s spilling over his fist.

Rain pelts the window as they fight to catch their breath. Ryan softens his grip in Shane’s hair, smoothing the damp strands away from his forehead, and smiles blearily at the ceiling. They’re in desperate need of a wash, but he has no desire to move out from under the weight of Shane’s body, and judging by the way Shane’s slumped on top of him, he’s not the only one.

“I knew you missed me,” Shane huffs against his throat, tilting his head to give Ryan a look of mischievous delight.

Ryan barks a laugh, smoothing his sweat-damp hair off of his brow. “Don’t let it go to your head, Madej,” he says, but there’s no disguising the fondness in his voice. Nor the unease, when he ventures, “Don’t go.”

Shane sighs, leaning down to press a kiss to his chin. “Ryan, I have to – I _need_ to find them.”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He’s said it so many times, as a warning to himself just as much as Shane, and it never fails to tear at his insides, knowing that he’s right. “Is that what your family would want? You getting’ yourself shot, dying out on some mountain, or in the dirt, or – “ He breaks off, turning his head away. Goddamn it.

“ _Ryan_.” It’s uttered with so much reverence that Ryan’s fooled into turning back, out of hiding. Shane’s looking at him like he’s never seen the likes of him before. “Why do you care so much?”

“You think I just invite anybody into my bed?” Ryan scoffs, though his voice wavers as Shane continues to watch him, something cautious in his gaze. “I told you, you great goddamned idiot. You’re one a’ us, you – you belong here. With me. I want you here, with me.” Silence falls between them, Shane’s eyes never wavering from his face, and Ryan jerks his own to the ceiling, flustered beyond measure and blaming Shane for every lick of it. “And if you can’t, if you don’t want to stay, if you have to go off again, I’ll go with you, I won’t let you hunt down those sorry sons of bitches alone, I’ll - ”

He breaks off with a gasp as Shane kisses him, hands curling tight around his cheeks. It’s desperate and fierce, yet soft all the same, somehow. Just like Shane, with his laughter and jokes, his sorrow and loneliness and unrelenting devotion to the causes that drive him, and to the people that love him.

“I’ll stay,” Shane promises, and his eyes are wet, his voice hushed and broken. “If you’ll have me, darlin’, I’ll stay.”

“Idiot,” Ryan murmurs fondly, wrapping his arms around Shane’s shoulders and squeezing him to his chest. “That’s all I’ve been wantin’. Hasn’t it gotten through your fool head already?”

Shane laughs, breathy and wet. “You might have to remind me, every now and then. Until it sticks.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do. Long as you need it, and after, too.”

It’s a promise Ryan plans to keep.


End file.
